I tend to have gay friends. In fact, I have so many queer friends that I could complete the acronym.
When the iconic monologue of Miss Eugene Domingo from the movie “Ang Babae sa Septic Tank 2” became a cultural symbol in the LGBT+ community, I began to look beneath it. These four lines are an iconic piece of Filipino pop culture, often clipped and shared online because they speak a rotten truth about how our society only views queer people—the life of the party, the rainbows to a dull world, the humor to our misfortunes, and the sidekicks to our mainstream stories.
Looking at my seven-year friendship with my gay best friend, I know how profound those sentences are—stripped of Miss Eugene’s comedic delivery.
I first met him in the seventh grade, when he had so many “girlfriends” and “girl” friends that most of the boys in our class despised him. Today, this is a usual inside joke for both of us, but as a 12-year-old, it was a strategy my friend had to adopt because he wanted to prove himself to his deeply masculine and patriarchal father.
We didn’t know each other that well at this age; we didn’t bother to. Our interactions were limited to high school small talk, but it was enough for me to see right through him. I didn’t mean to assume, but looking at him, I just knew he was faking it.
By the ninth grade, we found ourselves being that duo within our friend group. I just woke up one day to find myself cheering frantically for him while he was on stage, dancing as if he had no bones, to “Boombayah” by Blackpink. Soon, he became the friend who would teach me how to pose stylishly, give me tips on how to get my crush’s attention , and effortlessly recite the pros and cons of my skincare products.
Yes, he could make us smile easily or burst into laughter without the stunts. But to say he was just the “funny gay friend” would be misleading—a testament to the exact media stereotype Miss Eugene was mocking. His humor was not merely for our entertainment; it was also his way of letting us know that despite the strict parameters of his life, he chose joy. A contagious one.
“Mahal ko ang mga bakla.”
Seven years into our friendship, he has witnessed most of my highs and lows. As we go through the journey of being naive, my gay friend is the first to see, laugh, and listen as I fell in love—and as I fell into despair when it ended. He became my unpaid therapist throughout the endless teenage dramas, offering the advice only he could truly define: to fight despite it all.
“Gusto ko ang mga bakla.”
The irony is that gay people, and the queer community as a whole, spend so much energy making us happy, yet society offers them only the barest, most volatile band-aid protections.
The daily, unwarranted remarks my gay best friend has to dodge in the streets like “bading,” the backhanded taunts “sayang,” and the closet he still hides in from his own father are just the symptoms of a much bigger societal disease; the systemic denial of equal civil rights and the deafening absence of institutional safety nets for queer people.
Having queer friends means realizing all of this—that our society will gladly consume queer talent, media, and culture, but locks them out of its legal protections.
Lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and all those navigating their identities are people who have mastered the labor of turning murky oppression into colorful resilience—one that we should not romanticize. Individuals should not be required to turn their pain into entertainment just to make their existence palatable to a world that refuses them baseline dignity.
Resilience, after all, is just a poetic word for survival.
Queer people deserve human rights, not just applause for surviving the lack of it.
Thus, fighting alongside them means recognizing that the joy and laughter they give to us is not a mere rainbow splashed onto our grayish world, but a hard-fought victory won each day against a society that constantly tries to take it away.
To be queer should not mean performing for the appeasement of an audience.
Being part of the LGBTQ+ community is not only about being the life of the party, the emotional shield for people’s misfortunes, or the comedic sidekicks to mainstream love teams. Rather, being individuals deserving of dignity, citizens entitled to equal rights, brave people who should never have to compromise peace just to live and love, and above all, friends worthy of the exact same joy they freely give.
“Dapat may bakla.”
